


Is it too late to tell you a story?

by Mary_chat



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/M, One Shot, idk I was said, let me be, lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28979292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_chat/pseuds/Mary_chat
Summary: During Stoneheart, Chat accidentally killed Ivan. Parisians immediately thought Chat was a monster. Not to Marinette though... One rainy day, Chat revealed to Marinette then the day following dies... Marinette meets someone who looks like Adrien but he was not her Chat. Her Chat was dead.Or was he...
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Kudos: 23





	Is it too late to tell you a story?

There was once a monster in Paris.

People whispered its stories across well-lit kitchen tables and around warm fireplaces. The tales told of a beast as black as the night sky, with eyes made from glowing red embers. With sharp teeth and talons that could rip you to shreds with a single swipe. 

Some say the beast was brought here from a hellish otherworld- to teach us a lesson that we had long forgotten. Others say that it was a lonesome sort of creature that traveled between towns, in search of a home it would never find. But all stories were quite clear on one thing— the monster had fallen in love with an angel.

Paris was a city of romantics at heart, and no other option made itself viable for why the creature had not harmed her, and so it came to be told that she was the reason it was ultimately slew. They say that she had seen the hideous face of the beast and had not flinched; had tempered its fury with her cool, lilting voice; tamed it— saved it— with her grace. And then they would give in to sleep knowing that all was right with the world, and that even monsters could be pardoned in the end.

But the stories were only half-truths dressed in white lies, failing to mention many things— things that, of course, the public would otherwise choose not to dwell on. For example, they failed to mention the sudden surge of reporters and citizens alike, flooding the doors of the bakery, vying for the chance to see the blessed angel in person.

They failed to mention the torn blue scarf lying on the cobbled pavement, victim to the downpour. 

They failed to mention that the monster had a name.

“Chat Noir...”

It was a breath in the wind; too quiet for any of the townspeople to hear, but too loud an echo in the angel’s barren heart. Marinette pressed her forehead against the window glass with a sigh and felt the cold leech into her skin. 

It was days like these where she wanted nothing more than to stand under the teary grey sky and feel the rain caress her face, her soul. And not for the first time that day, she wondered whether that is what it felt like to die.

“Marinette?”

The rain had not let up since his death, and it was not long before the people of Paris had begun to wonder whether they would have another flood on their hands. 

Paris, she knew, loved to gossip. Everyday (for the past few months now) people had come to the bakery— her parents couldn’t have been more thrilled— and to ask her about the rumors. 

"Did he hurt you? How did the monster die? You saw his face didn’t you? Did he have fangs? Claws that could rip you in half?"

"He was gentle," she would say to anyone who stayed long enough to listen. "He was gentle and he was kind. He would never hurt anyone."

They would smile at her, pat her arm or nod sympathetically and then they would go home with tales of the angel’s famed forgiveness and how she couldn’t help but see the good in everyone— even a monster. They would hear her, but they would never listen.

She wore her mourning like she had all her life— blatantly upon her sleeve for all to gaze upon. If they chose to, that is. After all, people would only ever see what they wanted to see; and no one had wanted to see that the angel had loved the monster too.

“Darling?”

Marinette peeled herself away from the soothing chill and turned to find Sabine beaming at her as though she had just won the lottery. In her hand was a crisply folded piece of paper to which she kept glancing.

“What’s wrong?” Marinette asked finally. 

“What’s wrong? No my dear girl— what’s right! What is absolutely right!” Her mom said excitedly as she tucked the piece of paper away.

“Indeed?”

“There’s a man outsi-“

“Oh Mom, not this again—” the girl groaned. 

Sabine had been actively seeking a husband for her daughter; her search consisting of only the most influential men in France. Marinette had rejected every suitor that had come her way so far— even Nathaniel hadn’t dared yet approach her.

“Ma chérie, I know that you’re not willing to be married yet, but this man is a Duke! He would make sure you want for nothing!”

‘Or so he says’, Marinette thought peevishly.

They all had promised the same thing; fortune, security, a loyal heart that would not stray, but Marinette was no fool. She had seen the way their eyes had lingered a little too long on her waist or the curve of her chest— and had made sure they knew where she thought rats, like them, belonged. But dismissing the hope in her mom’s eyes was too heavy a burden this time.

“Very well, mom,” she caved, “I shall give him a chance.”

Sabine nearly shrieked, pressing a quick kiss on her daughter’s forehead before she lead Marinette out by the hand; exchanging sly smiles with the customers going in the opposite direction. 

The bakery was swathed in red silk and darkness— making it seem like perpetual nighttime— lit only by the warm glow of the candles that lined each table. 

She wasn’t all surprised to see the numerous tables already filled with men and women from the farthest corners of the country, trading smiles and stories alike. Everyone, from shifty-looking reporters to even shiftier-looking politicians were there.

Hastily drying her own stained cheeks with the sleeves of her jacket, Marinette mentally prepared herself to meet her suitor on her balcony. 

The guests had begun shifting, talking amongst themselves again, and Marinette peered over the balcony, hands firmly clutching the rail, trying to happen upon anyone she recognized. She thought she saw Nino’s trademark red hat and Alya’s luscious red curls, but before she could get a closer look, a voice startled her from behind.

“Careful,” it sounded distinctly masculine.

Marinette pursed her lips and turned, ready to scold him for sneaking up on her like that, but when she beheld the figure her heart very nearly stopped. A man ducked under the balustrade entryway; dressed in a white button down with a soft blue scarf around his neck, orange converse a broad white helmet covering most of his face. He almost looked like—

“Adrien?!”

The figure stopped for a second, bemused, before carefully removing his helmet from his head and pressing it to his heart with a small bow; revealing a strong-jawed, green-eyed, and entirely handsome face. 

“You know my name,” he sounded surprised, raising from his bow to meet her defeated gaze. 

“I- uh.. of course!” Marinette fumbled, gripping the balcony railing in order to steady both her heart and her legs, the latter which showed signs of giving out from underneath her.

“Who wouldn’t recognize you“

“yes” he cut in smoothly, the twitch of his lips betraying amusement.

“Right, of course,” she managed to choke out, quickly pulling out a chair to sink into. It felt as though her lungs were collapsing under the weight of her whole body at that moment.

“Please!” she gestured, a little too enthusiastically, “have a seat!”

He sat gracefully, his brown eyes studying her, like a cat, as she composed herself. 

He was not her Chat. Her Chat was dead. The thought alone drove the redness from her cheeks and the flutter from her heart. Cautiously, Marinette returned his gaze. 

“Forgive me,” he said, once the silence wore thin, “It was rude of me to startle you so”

And, apparently, a gentleman.

Marinette waved away his apology as gracefully as she could; she was glad he couldn’t see her legs quaking under the table.

“A curious ensemble for a Duke,” she pointed out, finally getting a grip on her voice. The man— Adrien— smiled, as though they were sharing a secret. 

“Well, I do have a soft spot for cookies” 

Was he teasing her?

“What brings you here, Monsieur?”

“The same as everyone else, I suppose.”

A glint of mischief in those dark eyes. Oh, he was most definitely teasing her.

Marinette frowned.

“And what might that be?”

“I came to see the princess of Paris,” he tilted his head ever so slightly, as if daring her to ask. So she did.

“And?”

“She is beautiful” he said simply.

Marinette couldn’t stop the heat from rising into her cheeks now. Suddenly glad for the dark ambiance of the bakery, she hid her embarrassment behind a cloth napkin, dabbing uselessly at her mouth in an attempt to get her bearings.

“I hope you do not intend to propose, Monsieur”

“Whatever gave you that idea, Mademoiselle?” He seemed to be trying very hard to suppress a smile.

“Just a hunch”

“How wonderful,” Sabine barged in before he could reply, “You two have already met!”

“Madame!”

“mom!” 

Both of them rose at the same time to greet her mother, who gestured for them to sit down for heaven’s sake, and hurried away, Marinette hadn’t spent more than five minutes with any of the other suitors and he was the one, I’m sure!

The couple exchanged glances and Marinette was pleasantly surprised to find Chat noticeably pink, akin to a scolded child. 

“Mom can be little too enthusiastic sometimes,” Marinette smiled, easing away the tension as they both resumed their seats. Adrien ducked his head gratefully, relieved from the task of replying. For the first time since he arrived, Marinette looked past him and caught a glimpse of an instrument.

“Forgive me for asking,” Marinette ventured, “but do you play?”

Adrien caught her pointed glance at the piano behind him and smiled.

“Not for everyone”

Marinette had to keep her lips from twitching at that and leaned a little closer to her white-clad companion. 

“Will you play for me?”

He met her gaze with one of equal playfulness, and winked.

“For you, Mademoiselle? Anything.”

“But first—“ her grin faltered, “I think this belongs to you”

Marinette gaped as the man pulled out a bedraggled blue scarf, worn thin by rain and Parisian streets, from inside his white coat. She hardly dared to breath, as he held it out to her under the buttery glow of the candle.

It was the scarf Adrien— her Chat— was wearing when she first met him; and the same one he had on when he died. Tears lined Marinette’s eyes and for a brief, terrible moment, she thought she was going to cry.

“Where..” She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Adrien’s eyes twinkled again.

“Mademoiselle,” he began, placing the blue piece of cloth on the table between them.

“Is it too late to tell you a story?”


End file.
